


counting heartbeats (yours and mine)

by charliebradburyismyspiritanimal



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Airplanes, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Angst, Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Art, Awkward Flirting, Awkwardness, F/M, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Kissing, Language, M/M, Meet-Cute, Mental Health Issues, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Bucky Barnes, Sam Wilson Is a Good Bro, Sign Language, Slash, Steve Rogers & Tony Stark Friendship, Steve Rogers Has PTSD, Tony Stark Is a Good Bro, but also not a meet-cute
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-12
Updated: 2018-06-12
Packaged: 2019-05-21 06:34:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14910185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charliebradburyismyspiritanimal/pseuds/charliebradburyismyspiritanimal
Summary: Steve doesn't expect to enjoy his flight as much as he does. And he definitely doesn’t expect what comes after.





	counting heartbeats (yours and mine)

**Author's Note:**

> so, this came from a prompt i got from a friend about an airplane meet-cute with person a having an asthma attack and person b helping. i thought of stucky, and it sorta became this. I was helped out by my wonderful friend [emotionaltrinityfreak](https://archiveofourown.org/users/emotionaltrinityfreak/pseuds/emotionaltrinityfreak.). he writes bandom fics, already has like six up (mostly ryden and frerard). go check him out! this is also like the cheesiest thing to exist so please don’t judge me.

Steve hasn’t been on a plane in years, not since the accident. He knew it was a bad idea, but he had promised Pepper that he would be there for Tony’s party and flying was the only way to get there in time. Plus, Pepper got him first class, and he couldn’t let her down. He regrets that promise now.

 

 _Breathe_ , he cautions himself. _Don’t freak out. You’ll be fine._ His knuckles are white as he grips the armrests, and his legs bounce nervously. When the plane starts to move, his hands become even tighter on the chair and he bites his lip, the metallic taste of blood filling his mouth.

 

The plane leaves the ground and Steve bites back a scream, his nails curling in to pierce his skin, the pain taking his mind off the fear for a fraction of a second. But then it’s back, sinking in, crushing him from all sides. He closes his eyes, and his body tenses further as the plane tilts slightly. He breathes slowly, remembering what his therapist said, and thinks of normal things to take his mind off of his surroundings. His morning routine. Walking in the park. The dog he’s about to adopt. His art; the newest idea he has for a painting. He plans it out, watching it unfold in his mind.

 

He gets through the first two hours of the plane ride like that. Then the turbulence starts, and Steve can’t pretend that everything’s okay anymore.

 

He’s shaking, his muscles still tense, causing pain that doesn’t make him forget his fear, instead it furthers it. He can’t move, his body won’t let him. He wants to scream, but he can’t open his mouth, and a choked sob escapes him. _Why?_

 

A quiet voice brings him out of his haze of fear. Steve turns his head as far as his paralyzed body will allow, and catches a glimpse of dark hair and blue eyes to rival his own before another bout of overwhelming fear overcomes him and his eyes close out of instinct. The voice speaks again, a little louder, and Steve gasps out a choked response.

 

“I-I can’t hear you,” he whispers, his eyes still screwed shut.

 

“Shit,” he hears faintly, and then, louder, comes, “you’re having a panic attack, okay? Can I help you? I’m going to help you, okay?” The voice is distinctly male, and the part of Steve that isn’t paralyzed with fear starts to pick the man apart, trying to identify his character through his voice. Something instilled by his military training, he thinks. And Nat. Analyzing the voice brings him away from his panic, but he’s snapped back to reality when the plane jolts. Another noise of distress slips out and the man next to him murmurs, “Hey, it was just turbulence, you’re fine, you’re safe. You’re safe.”

 

Steve’s eyes open and he tries to turn his head to look at the man whose voice reminds him of home. He fails; he still can’t move, and that’s another reason to shake with fear.

 

“Hey, it’s okay,” the voice soothes.  “I’m gonna put my hand on your arm, is that okay?”

 

Steve forces himself to nod, he knows the contact helps. A hand-gloved, his mind registers-lands on his forearm and grips lightly.

 

“Good?”

 

Steve breathes a slight sigh of relief at the grounding the contact brings him. The man squeezes slightly, and Steve’s panic lessens a fraction.

 

“Okay, I need you to breathe with me. Deep breaths, you hear me?” Steve tries to mimic the breathing pattern started by the man, but the more breaths he takes, the less air fills his lungs.

 

“Fuck, okay, not working. I’m gonna try something, okay? Pull away, or give me a sign if it’s not fine?” The blonde bites his lip, and suddenly feels the man move Steve’s left arm off the armrest and maneuver across the seat, turning Steve’s body slightly, and then his hand is on the man’s chest, over his heart.

 

“Feel my heartbeat, okay? Use it to ground you.” The man continues, murmuring unintelligible things as Steve feels the echoing beat under his hand. He counts:

 

_1, 2._

 

_3, 4._

 

_5, 6._

 

_7, 8…_

 

When he reaches beat 64, he stops shaking.

 

92, and his breaths even out.

 

136, and he’s no longer frozen.

 

At beat 158, his eyes open. The man meets his eyes, and smiles softly.

 

“Better?”

 

Steve nods. “Thank you.”

 

“I’ve been through the same thing before. I’ve had help. Figured you’d need someone to help you.” The man blushes, and Steve realizes his hand is still on the other’s chest. He pulls away, ducking his head, and when he looks up, the man’s blush is gone and a cocky smirk has replaced it. Steve tries not to blush himself, and forces his eyes not to travel down to the man’s lips. Instead, he’s stuck with staring into the piercing blue eyes that are fixed on him, that travel over his face, seemingly searching for something. He apparently finds it, because he offers his hand and winks. “I’m James, but please call me Bucky.”

 

Steve takes it. “Steve,” he responds, trying not to think about the feel of Bucky’s hand in his. “Where does ‘Bucky’ come from?”

 

“My middle name, Buchanan. My parents were history nuts. Still don’t know why they picked that name though.” Steve is attentive, picking up on the tense that Bucky refers to his parents in, but doesn’t voice his thoughts.

 

“So, um,” Bucky starts, and Steve glances back at him. “Do you want to tell me, uh, the cause of that?” He gestures around and Steve knows his face immediately closes off; he can’t help it, it’s instinct. Bucky sees and instantly begins to backtrack. “I’m sorry, I mean, I’m just…” he stops. “I’m training to be a therapist and I just thought, maybe, I could, you know, help? You really don’t have to tell me though. I—god I fucked this up. I’m sorry, Steve.” Bucky, looking like he feels terrible, glances away and doesn't see the small smile that finds its way onto Steve's face.

 

Bucky was babbling, and it’s endearing, and he’s also one of the most understanding people Steve has met since he got back. He _wants_ to talk to Bucky. “I-” he starts, then stops. “I’m sorry, Bucky, I can’t, I just can’t.”

 

Bucky nods, his face still hidden from Steve. Steve wants him to look over, wants him to keep talking, wants to get to know him. “Thank you for offering, though,” Steve adds quietly, and _that_ makes Bucky turn his head, a small smile creeping its way back onto his face. Steve sighs inwardly, and his lips curve upward into a smile that matches Bucky’s.

 

“So why are you going to L.A?” The question comes suddenly and Steve blinks, startled at the change of subject. He quickly recovers, thinking of the extravagant celebration Pepper probably has planned.

 

“It’s my friend’s birthday and his girlfriend wanted me to fly up there to surprise him.” Bucky bites his lip at that response.

 

“Does she know? About…” He trails off, his hands gesturing aimlessly. Steve feels his heart flutter at the compassion in Bucky’s voice, but brushes it off.

 

“Sorta? I mean, she knows about the, uh, PTSD and stuff. I don’t think she thought that flying might trigger me. I didn’t think about it either.” Bucky relaxes slightly at his response, and again Steve’s heart beats faster. “And why’re you headed there?” he asks, in an attempt to get his mind off of how this man he met less than two hours ago is already making him feel…safe. Comforted. The thought that he hasn’t felt this way since Peggy flits into his mind and he pushes it away.

 

“A friend of mine is having a party too,” Bucky says, pulling Steve’s focus. “Kinda feel obligated to go, but I like the guy.” Bucky doesn’t expand on why he’s obligated, just clenches his left hand into a fist almost unconsciously, and Steve feels awkward about it. He shuffles in his seat, trying to think of something to say. “I also have family there, my sister and her kids, so I’m going to visit them too,” Bucky adds, and Steve almost exhales in relief that the awkwardness has been broken. Then he registers what Bucky said, and now his mind is trying to push away unbidden images of Bucky with kids.

 

“Sister, huh?” he asks. “Do you have other siblings?”

 

“Nope, just me and Becca.” Bucky smiles at the thought of his sister, and Steve tries to tamp down butterflies. Bucky’s smile makes him even more beautiful. “You?”

 

“I'm an only child, but I had some close friends that were, and still are, like brothers.” Steve thinks of Tony and Sam, and lets out a small sigh of relief when he realizes he’s seeing them in less than a day. Bucky glances at him and Steve feels warm at the expression in the other man’s eyes.

 

They lapse into a comfortable silence, Bucky looking out the window, and Steve finds himself studying Bucky's features again, his eyes roaming over Bucky's face; his gray-blue eyes framed by long dark lashes, a jaw that could cut glass, soft pink lips that look slightly chapped, a small imperfection that make him even more perfect in Steve's eyes. He reminds Steve of how the gods were described by the Greeks; Bucky has a unique beauty. His fingers itch for a pencil or a paintbrush, something to document Bucky's attractiveness.

 

“Take a picture, it'll last longer,” Bucky quips, still looking out the window, and Steve feels a flush creep up his neck as he realizes that Bucky knew he was staring.

 

“I'm sorry, I'm an artist, I just-you'd be a great subject,” Steve explains hurriedly, leaving out the fact that he thinks Bucky has a god-like beauty. Bucky's face reddens at the compliment and his smirk is replaced with a shy smile.

 

“Artist, huh? What kind?”

 

“All sorts. I do freelance design and marketing for local companies. My hobby art is drawing and painting, though.”

 

A look of recognition dawns on Bucky’s face. “Are you Steve Rogers?” Steve nods.

 

“Yeah, you know me?”

 

“I’ve heard of you. My friend--and my business partner,” he adds, “--has been trying to get me to contact you for ages.” Bucky blushes, then adds quickly, “To get you to design for our business, I mean.”

 

“What do you do?”

 

“We own a bakery/cafe kind of place. I bake, she’s in charge of everything else. But she wouldn’t contact you without my permission for some reason.”

 

It’s Steve’s turn to have a moment of realization, and he asks, “Is your bakery The Winter Shuski?” He butchers the name, but Bucky’s face lights up at his mistake.

 

“Yeah, yeah. That’s us. Opened it 2, 3 years ago? We do сушки, of course, but all sorts of other bread too. It’s…calming, I guess, the pattern of baking.” He ducks his head. “That doesn’t really make sense.”

 

“No!” Steve says hurriedly, and he blushes. “No. It does. Make sense, I mean. That’s why I still do art. It calms me. My friend slash self-imposed therapist-” Bucky smirks at that “-says it’s a coping mechanism for me.”  

 

Bucky smiles softly. “What’re your favorite things to draw?”

 

“Um, Brooklyn. Like, the places, the skyline, the people. I’ve lived there all my life, so drawing it helps me center myself, but also, I can really _feel_ what I draw. I can tell it’s not meaningless, that it holds value. Drawing the skyline is kind of systematic, and drawing the people is free, unorganized, but there’s still a technique, I guess.” Steve feels a smile creep across his face. “Sorry, I’m rambling.”

 

“No, don’t apologize. That was…” Bucky trails off. “It makes sense,” he settles with, repeating Steve’s words.

 

“Do you wanna see one of my drawings?” Steve asks quickly, bending to grab his bag so Bucky doesn’t see the bright red blush staining his cheeks.

 

“Do you want to show me one of your drawings?” Bucky responds gently, and Steve stops, frozen with one hand on his bag. No one ever asked him that. It was always “show _me_ your art” and never “do _you_ want to show me?” His drawings meant something to him and showing them off sometimes took that away. But Bucky asked. And Bucky was different. Somehow.

 

“Yeah. Yeah, I do.” Steve sits up, holding his sketchpad. “Here.” He flips it open to a random page and hands it to Bucky, closing his eyes so not to see his reaction.

 

Bucky doesn’t say anything for a full minute; Steve counts the seconds in his head. When he finally does speak, it’s a breathless exclamation.

 

“Wow. Steve, just, wow.” There’s a hand on his arm suddenly. “Steve.” Bucky tightens his hand marginally. “Come on, open your eyes. I’m not gonna tell you that you’re awful.” Steve’s eyes blink open, and he looks at Bucky. There’s an expression of pure _awe_ on the brunet’s face.

 

“Steve, this is fucking amazing.” Bucky’s holding the sketchpad reverently, like it’s something special. Steve glances at it, and falters. He didn’t mean to show Bucky [that page.](https://docs.google.com/drawings/d/1DWz3q6t9qI_W6lqFFB2E-CakuHhGGAz46DFC0dW_aZs/edit?usp=sharing.)

 

It’s Peggy. Her face is stern, but there’s a small smile gracing her lips. There’s no color in the drawing except for the painted red of Peggy’s lips, and the deep brown of her eyes. Steve smiles in spite of himself. Her lips were where the front she put on existed, where what she wanted people to see was shown. She kept them painted to keep up that facade. But her eyes…her eyes had been where all her true emotion had been conveyed. They were the most beautiful things Steve had ever seen. _She_ was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.   

 

She’s looking somewhere the drawing doesn’t show, but Steve remembers. It had been the night before his team’s first mission, and Dum Dum had been making inappropriate yet funny remarks about their superiors. Peggy had been tamping down her laughter, but then she turned to Steve, and he grinned, giddy with excitement. Peggy allowed that smile she had been holding back to escape, and it was the first moment Steve had truly seen who she was. It was the moment when he fell in love with her.  

 

Steve shuts his eyes, blinking away the tears, and when he opens them, his vision is clear.

 

“Sorry.”

 

“For what?”

 

 _For being fucked up_ , Steve thinks. _For showing you a picture of_ her.

 

“Nothing,” he says instead, and Bucky’s brow furrows, but he doesn’t press.

 

“Who is she?” he questions, and Steve feels his heart tear.

 

“No,” Steve says softly. “I can’t. I can’t talk about her.”

 

“Shit. Okay,” Bucky whispers. “Okay.” He hands the pad back to Steve, and Steve closes it quickly, shoving it in his bag.

 

He clenches his hand into a fist, and releases it. Bucky bites his lip, and turns towards the window once again. This time, Steve doesn’t stare at him. They stay silent for the rest of the flight, throwing glances towards each other, but when the pilot announces that they’re landing and the plane starts to bank, Bucky slips his hand into Steve’s and squeezes.

 

“Breathe. Don’t think about it. Just breathe.”

 

They land, and Bucky lets go. Steve feels the absence of Bucky’s hand in his, but they depart the plane together. Steve wants to grab Bucky’s hand again. He doesn’t, and when they retrieve their bags and step outside together, Steve mentally chastises himself. _Too late now._

 

“Bye, Bucky,” he murmurs, turning away and shouldering his duffel. The rational part of him says that they’ll see each other again, they both live in Brooklyn. The fucked-up part of him says that it’s goodbye forever. He’s never been good at goodbyes.

 

“Hey, no, wait. Take this.” Bucky shoves a slip of paper into his hand, and Steve glances at it. It’s a business card for The Winter Shuski, and Bucky had scribbled something on it. “My personal number.” He blushes. “Just…if you need me.”

 

“Thank you,” Steve says. And he means it. “Bye.”

 

“Bye, Steve.”

  
And then they’re walking away from each other, and Steve wants to turn around, but he doesn’t. Instead he counts the steps he takes away from Bucky, in time with the beats of his heart. _1, 2, 3, 4…_

**Author's Note:**

> i really hoped you guys liked this, i’ve been unsure about this fic for ages. steve's drawing is not mine, all credit goes to the artist. shuski is a russian desert that’s kind of like a bagel. (and yes, i know “the winter shuski” is the stupidest name ever, but i couldn’t think of anything else. if anyone has any other ideas, i'd be happy to hear them. like seriously. please help.) chapter two will hopefully be up soon, i’m mostly done. sorta.  
> thank you for reading! kudos and comments are always appreciated!


End file.
